


Feed the Rain

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Dancing in the Rain, F/M, Inspired by Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4176213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you breathe the name of your saviour in your hour of need? And taste the blame, if the flavour should remind you of greed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feed the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> [Carnival of Rust by Poets of the Fall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TyX0q0aU6_g)

“What are they doing?”

“A rain dance.” Joshua replies, looking out over the camp. “I minister to them as I can, guide them to the true God, but sometimes it is easiest to allow them their rituals. Something familiar, and comforting. As long as they pray for the rain from the right God, I suppose it doesn’t matter how they worship.”

The Courier nods. The dancing seems erratic, and unscripted. “Are there steps?”

“There used to be. They did away with those with their old gods.”

“Can I join them?”

He’s taken aback by that. He turns his head the side she stands at only slightly; Six is beginning to think the burns have hardened around his neck, because he never turns it more than that. “Would you like to?”

She nods, and smiles. “I would.”

She appeared as a mercenary, with more pistols than she could hold with both hands and metal knuckles to cover her own. She was pale- deathly, and bruised under the eyes, and smelled of sun-baked death in dust. She wears the jeans, still, though rarely anything but a sports bra above it, and carries little but a rifle she found here, and the yao guai gauntlet she fought with in the days she was healing hammer-bite from the first time she fired a .45, now at her hip. She wears her hair free of the grease, in braids, and freckles blend the fading pallor into the acne scars and war paint on her cheeks and shoulders.

She has not only come into Zion, but Zion has come into her.

“I don’t see why not.”

She smiles, broad, and splashes into the water where the Dead Horses dance. She sways, like the trees, and jumps, like the water, and glows, like the moon. Like the sun. She is one with the Earth, whatever form it takes: Wasteland, willowwacks, or wilds. So at home, that when she dances, he cannot imagine her belonging anywhere else.

Joshua sees the first drop on the water, too far from the activity to be caused by it. The Courier- the one he wasn’t expecting, the one he needed- raises her hands to the sky, and catches raindrops in her palms as she opens them out.

“Ask and ye shall receive.” Joshua attests. The tribals hoot, and amen, relishing in one of the hundreds of little storms native to Zion’s climate.

Ah, but the Courier spins, and rejoices, “I never want to leave Zion!”

In that moment, Joshua finds he doesn’t want her to, either.

In the days coming, in the downfall of the White Legs, and the exodus of the Dead Horses, she finds no reason to stay.


End file.
